U     L    n  r- 


r/< 


SILYER  PICTURES 


BY 


JULIA  RUSSELL  McMASTERS. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

II.   COWPERTHWAIT    &   CO. 

1856. 


Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 
H.  COWPERTHWAIT  &  CO., 

In  the  Office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  in  and 
for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


CKISSY  &  MARKLEY,  PRINTERS, 

GOLDSMITHS   HALL,    L1BRABY   STKKET, 

PHILADELPHIA 


CONTENTS. 


WHITE  LILY. 

ENCAMPING  ANGEL. 

WREATH  AND  HARP. 

IN  PRIMO. 

CRADLE  SONG. 

SILYER  PICTURES. 

I. 

II. 

HI. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

REQUIEM. 

"  I  HEARD  A  VOICE  FROM  HEAVEN.'; 

GLORY  ON  THE  GRAVE. 

RESURGAM. 

STELLA. 

DEUS  MISEREATUR. 

THOUGHTS  FROM  VISIONS. 

CYNTHIA. 


M19197! 


PREFACE. 


THIS  brief  book  is  made  Sacred  to  a  most  SWEET  MEMORY, 
from  which  it  has  chiefly  drawn  its  breath  of  life. 

For  while  other  memories  have  come  forth  to  me  pure- 
Parianed  from  the  past  and  taken  shape  in  song,  each  with  its 
separate  smile  and  attitude  of  bliss  and  blessing,  this  Sculpture 
stands  the  truest  type  of  the  love  that  illumes  them  all.  And 
so  long  as  that  love  shines  stedfast  on  that  fixed,  fair  Form, 
so  long  will  that  form  give  out  its  memnon-music  from  my 
soul. 


SILVER  PICTURES. 


WHITE    LILY. 

Imperial  Flower  !  from  out  thy  silver  chalice, 
Blending  their  sweetness  with  thy  soft  perfume, 

Come  thronging  memories  of  a  columned  palace 
Decked  for  a  festal  train  one  night  in  June. 

Pale,  pure  and  perfect,  thou  didst  mock  the  ceiling 
With  thy  rich  breath  and  white  regality; 

Thy  curling  lip  and  dazzling  depth  revealing 
Serene  disdain  that  aught  should  rival  thee. 

Yet  bright  in  rivalry  beamed  lovely  faces, 
And  slender  shapes  as  stately  as  thine  own, 

And  lustrous  eyes,  whose  manifold  mute  graces 
Entranced  the  worshippers  they  shone  upon. 

And  there  was  one  whose  neck  did  rise  as  whitely 
From  its  thin  screen  as  thine  among  its  leaves ; 

Her  silken  ringlets  kissed  its  arch  as  lightly 
As  round  thy  brow  the  wind  its  wooing  weaves* 


8  WHITE  LILY. 

Flowers  of  all  hues  around  were  breathing,  blushing, 
All  gracious  odors  filled  the  floating  air, 

But  naught  could  rival  the  tumultuous  flushing 
That  lit  her  cheek  impearled  beneath  her  hair. 

Because  that  high-born  and  pure-hearted  maiden 

Thenceforth  would  grace  her  maiden  home  no  more ; 

So  drooped  the  silken  fringes,  heavy  laden, 
Of  her  blue  eyes,  like  sapphires  bright  before. 

She  was  my  father's  first  and  fairest  daughter, 
Whose  gentle  hand  bestowed  as  true  a  heart. 

With  what  sweet  pride  his  kindling  glances  sought  her, 
Thus  with  her  lover  standing  there  apart. 

The  priest  said  "  Ye  are  one,"  and  with  a  blessing 
Warm  on  his  heart  and  lips,  the  father  pressed 

Through  the  close  throng,  but  might  not  stay  caressing 
The  dear  form  folded  to  his  throbbing  breast. 

For  up  came  then  each  little  timid  sister, 

Doing  shy  homage  to  her  bridal  grace ; 
And  as  they  stood  on  tip  of  toe  and  kissed  her, 

They  thought  she  had  a  wondrous  lovely  face. 


WHITE   LILY.  9 

Whether  it  was  the  veil's  voluptuous  trailing, 
Or  the  soft  pearls  bewildering  their  young  eyes, 

Or  that  the  tint  upon  her  cheek  was  paling 
Like  the  last  roseate  vespering  in  the  skies, 

I  know  not — but  they  turned  away  as  mutely 
From  her  white  form  as  it  had  been  a  shrine, 

And  as  her  voice  fell  fairy-like  and  flutely, 
Full  many  thought  her  beauty  half  divine. 

I  see  it  all  as  through  a  lengthened  vista, 
The  cloud-like  drapery,  the  gem-like  eyes, 

The  bridal  group  around  my  peerless  sister 
Graceful  uprising  as  white  lilies  rise. 

But  years  have  flown  since  that  auspicious  wedding, 
Since  those  triumphant  robes  were  laid  aside, 

And  Time  from  his  swift  pinions  has  been  shedding 
His  blight  and  blessing  on  the  fair  young  bride. 

They  tell  me  she  hath  lost  the  starry  beaming 
That,  in  her  girlhood  kindled  in  her  eyes, 

But  that  she  looketh  like  a  spirit  dreaming, 
A-weary  from  her  heaven-wrought  ecstasies. 
2 


10  WHITE   LILY. 

They  say  she  is  a  calm  and  chastened  creature 
As  ever  knelt  in  prayer  at  dewy  even, 

A  Christ-like  patience  touching  every  feature 
Into  a  soft  similitude  of  heaven. 

Then  by  these  signs  I  fear  she  may  be  taken 

Before  I  see  her  gentle  face  again, 
That  we  shall  never  meet  till  both  awaken 

Where  souls  are  purified  from  sin  and  pain. 

He  from  whose  lips  first  fell  the  bridal  blessing 
Has  gone  before  her  to  their  native  skies, 

In  the  Redeemer's  love  sweet  rest  possessing, 
Sunned  in  the  calm  eifulgence  of  His  eyes. 

Who  next  shall  go,  I  often  muse  and  ponder, 
Whose  head  lie  low  beneath  the  willow  tree, 

Whose  ransomed  spirit  wake  to  bliss  and  wonder 
By  the  green  margent  of  the  crystal  sea. 

There  our  full  vestures,  Lily  !  shall  be  whiter 
Than  gleams  the  silver  of  thy  burnished  cup, 

Our  radicnt  brows  with  God's  impress  be  brighter, 
And  with  a  loftier  grace  be  lifted  up. 


THE   ENCAMPING   ANGEL.  11 

Till  then,  White  Lily !  be  to  me  an  earnest 
Of  those  resplendent  robes  to  angels  given, 

And  ever,  as  thou  fadest  and  returnest, 
Remind  me  of  niy  holy  home  in  heaven. 


THE  ENCAMPING  ANGEL. 

My  Guardian  Angel !  while  the  night  is  weeping, 
And  while  alone,  defenceless,  I  am  sleeping, 
Art  thou  thy  vigil  by  my  pillow  keeping  ? 

Hast  thou,  with  self-forgetfulness,  forsaken 
Thy  place  beside  the  Throne,  and  kindly  taken 
Thy  post  by  my  lone  couch  till  I  awaken  ? 

Is  it  thy  presence  holy  that  dispenses 
These  pure  aspirings,  these  calm  influences  ? 
Are  they  of  thy  descension  evidences? 

While  thus  communion  I  with  thee  am  holding, 
I  almost  see  thy  brow's  celestial  molding, 
And  the  white  wings  thy  lineaments  enfolding. 


12  THE   ENCAMPING   ANGEL. 

Wbat  are  thy  thoughts  while  I  am  stilly  dreaming? 
What  radiant  visions  on  thy  soul  are  streaming, 
Brighter  by  far  than  Day's  meridian  beaming  ? 

Within  thy  ken  are  kindred  angels  winging 

Their  earthward  flight,  bland  benedictions  bringing  ? 

Or  by  young  children's  cradles  are  they  singing? 

Do  they  overcome  all  sorrowful,  rude  noises, 
With  the  majestic  mildness  of  their  voices, 
Till  Earth  refrains  from  weeping,  and  rejoices  ? 

Above  the  sufferer's  pillow  are  they  bending, 
Rich  consolation  with  his  anguish  blending, 
Till  Christ  shall  give  the  signal  for  ascending  ? 

Will  some  remain  to  soothe  the  broken-hearted, 
(As  He,  when  human,  with  divinest  art,  did,) 
And  guard  the  sacred  dust  of  the  departed  ? 

Where  contrite  souls  are  God's  just  anger  dreading, 
Are  they  compassionately,  kindly  treading, 
O'er  crimson  sins  the  Savior's  pardon  shedding? 

Are  they  unfolding  to  enfranchised  mortals 
The  blissful  gates,  the  fair  and  pearly  portals, 
Responsive  to  the  hymns  of  the  Immortals  ? 


THE   ENCAMPING  ANGEL.  13 

Benignest  Angel !  move  the  moments  slowly  ? 
Dost  thou  not  thrill  to  join  their  worship  holy 
Rather  than  watch  beside  my  slumber  lowly  ? 

No,  Bright  One  !  purified  from  self-denial, 
It  is  to  thee  no  banishment  nor  trial 
Thus,  o'er  my  sleep,  to  hold  serene  espial. 

Christ  Jesus  charge  concerning  me  hath  given 

To  keep  me  in  my  rest,  this  summer  even, 

Where  Christ  commands  thy  post,  there  is  thy  heaven. 

O,  when  the  morn  shall  see  thee  swift  returning 
To  those  fair  realms  where  seraphim  are  burning, 
New  esctacies  of  love  forever  learning, 

Beseech  Him  in  each  unforeseen  mutation 
That  thou  may'st  come  with  gentle  ministration 
To  me,  who  am  an  heir  of  His  salvation. 

And  oh  !  when  I  shall  feel  that  I  am  dying, 
When  to  loved  lips  my  own  refuse  replying, 
Through  the  dim  darkness  let  me  see  thee  flying, 

Mild,  mighty  Angel !  from  the  surging  river, 
From  mustering  foes  my  fainting  soul  deliver, 
Then  bear  it  saved  and  safe  to  God  the  Giver. 


14  WREATH   AND    HARP. 


WREATH  AND  HARP. 
Being-  the  device  of  a  book-mark  a  fair  young  sister  sent  me. 

I  oped  the  welcome  missive, 

And  there  fell  upon  the  ground 

A  Wreath  without  a  fragrance 
And  a  Harp  without  a  sound. 

Mute  emblems  full  of  meaning, 

What  did  ye  teach  to  me  ? 
What  lesson  did  I  gather 

From  your  voiceless  harmony  ? 

Dreamed  I  of  festal  chambers 

Decked  with  fairy  flowers  and  light, 

And  troops  of  dancing  maidens 
In  their  robes  of  lily  white  ? 

I  dreamed  of  divers  chambers, 

But  they  were  not  large  nor  light, 

Nor  were  the  dwellers  merry, 

Though  all  arrayed  in  white. 


WREATH   AND    HARP.  15 

Pale  were  their  quiet  faces, 

Cold  was  the  marble  brow, 
Ye  might  not  find  the  traces 

Of  laughter  on  them  now. 
I 

Thus  memory  brought  them  to  me 

In  sad  and  solemn  guise, 
But  soon  the  sadness  altered 

To  a  soft  and  glad  surprise. 

Faith  drew  aside  the  curtain 

That  veiled  their  souls  from  sight, 

And  lo  !  they  walked  in  heaven, 
Robed  in  celestial  white. 

Each  head,  divinely  molded, 

"Wore  an  amaranthine  crown ; 
Their  hair,  in  shivered  splendor 

Low  to  their  feet  fell  down. 

. 

To  golden  harps  they  warbled 

Round  a  "  glorious  high  Throne," 

Discoursing  wondrous  music, 
Such  as  angels  love  to  own. 


WREATH   AND    HARP. 

It  was  a  lovely  grouping, 

It  was  a  holy  band ; 
There  were  little  fair-haired  children 

With  their  mothers  by  the  hand. 

There  were  youths  of  lofty  stature, 
With  angelic  port  and  brow, 

Looking  less  on  sainted  maidens 
Than  on  the  Savior,  now. 

There  were  heads  which  once  were  hoary 
In  their  pilgrimage  below, 

But  now  the  crowns  of  glory 
Shed  gold  upon  the  snow. 

One  face  smiled  often  on  me 

As  I  watched  it  in  the  skies, 

I  thought  it  was  my  father, 

But  the  tears  stood  in  my  eyes. 

On  starry  plain  and  mountain 

Walked  the  shining,  happy  throng, 

And  from  each  crystal  fountain 

Swept  the  sound  of  harp  and  song. 


IN   PRIMO.  17 

And  Chief  among  ten  thousand, 

Fairer  than  all  beside,  % 

Broke  on  my  soul  the  vision 

Of  Jesus  glorified. 

Thus  I  lost  myself  in  musing, 

With  the  token  in  my  hand, 
Thus  came  sweet  revelations 

Of  the  bright  and  better  land. 

0  Harp  !  0  Garland  verdant ! 

By  a  sister  were  ye  given ; 
But  let  our  Christ  invest  me 

With  the  harp  and  crown  in  heaven ! 


IN   PRIMO. 

Close  to  my  shielding  side 
Nestle  thee  down  and  hide, 
Safe  from  the  bleak,  cold  world  so  pitiless. 
3 


18  IN   PRIMO. 

Soft,  silent,  harmless  thing  ! 
Shrewd  nature  cannot  bring 
A  surer  type  of  next  to  nothingness. 

Thou  canst  not  choose  but  breathe, 
Thou  canst  not  choose  but  wink, 
But  hast  not  wit  to  sheathe 

Thy  spreading  palms  of  pink, 
And  minim  fingers  from  the  biting  cold, 
Nor  round  thy  form  thy  fleecy  robes  to  fold. 
Thou  canst  not  sit  nor  walk, 
Thou  canst  not  think  nor  talk, 
Thou  canst  not  bend  a  fern, 
Thou  canst  not  even  turn 
When  thou  art  tired,  to 'ease  thy  tender  sides, 
Such  scanty  force  or  will  in  thee  abides. 
Thou  art  so  weak  and  wee, 
So  helpless  utterly, 

That,  did  I  wish  to  put  thee  from  my  way, 
There  were  no  need  to  kill, 
Merely  to  leave  thee  still, 

And  thy  fine  pulses  soon  would  stint  their  play, 
Thy  tiny-ticking  heart  would  cease  to  go, 
Thy  whisper-breath  of  life  would  cease  to  blow, 
Its  little  rosy  tide  forget  to  flow. 


IN   PRIMO.  19 

Yet,  though  so  void  of  strength. 

So  scant  of  breadth  and  length, 
So  microscopic  in  thy  motive  powers, 

I  read  thy  formless  face 

Like  some  sweet  page  of  grace, 
Unfolding  heaven  as  do  the  stainless  flowers. 

For  thou  dost  still  condense, 

0  thou  fair  Impotence  ! 

More  wealth  and  worth  than  all  the  world  contains, 
In  thy  fine  fibres  and  soft  coursing  veins. 

Thou  art  a  Golden  Bowl 

Shrining  a  human  Soul 
Capacious  of  delight  no  tongue  can  tell, 
Capacious  of  unfathomed  wo  as  well. 

Thou  art  a  Silver  String, 

Whose  future  vibrating 

Shall  thrill  its  paeans  to  the  listening  spheres 
Or  moan  its  minors  through  unending  years. 

Thou  art  a  Pitcher,  full 

Of  water  wonderful, 

Whose  lucid  depths  shall  glass  an  angel's  face, 
Or  flow  in  briny  floods  through  wailing  space. 


20  IN   PRIMO. 

Thou  art  a  Cistern  Wheel, 

Whose  swift  revolve  shall  feel 
The  impulse  of  the  creant  Hand  divine 
When  other  orbs  shall  cease  tp  roll  and  shine. 

How  shall  I  liken  thee, 

Thou  small  Humanity, 
Significant  beyond  thy  visible  marge  ? 

Thou  art  most  like  a  star, 

So  present,  yet  so  far, 
So  seeming  small,  yet  sphering  life  so  large. 

Spark  of  Divinity ! 

Heir  of  Eternity ! 

Great  things  were  done  for  thee 

Back  in  Antiquity. 

Things  which  the  angels  try 

To  pierce  into  and  pry, 

While  some  flew  singing  from  the  jasper  wall 
"  Glory  to  One,  good  will  and  peace  to  all !" 

That  Just  One  was,  for  thee, 

Emptied  of  Deity, 
And  born  a  naked  child  in  fleshly  thrall. 

He  walked  through  sorrow's  flood, 

He  oozed  great  drops  of  blood 
From  that  divine,  dear  brow,  with  Godhead  crowned^ 


IN   PRIMO.  21 

All  night,  for  thee  and  me, 

His  spirit's  agony 
Distilled  its  crimson  on  the  grieving  ground. 

There  came  an  angel  bright, 

From  the  far  spheres  of  light, 
To  lend  Him  strength  in  that  mysterious  hour. 

0  measureless,  awful  wo, 

That  made  Him  stoop  so  low 
Created  strength  to  need,  Lord  of  all  might  and  power ! 

He  suffered  shame  and  loss, 

And  on  the  cruel  cross 
Broke  His  great  heart  of  love  in  twain,  and  died. 

Then,  at  the  spear's  rude  throw, 

f 
In  rosy -lucent  flow, 

Forth  sluiced  the  mingled  flood  from  His  warm  side. 

Breathe  soft,  my  little  child  ! 

They  laid  the  Undefiled 
In  a  dark  tomb,  where  lie  the  lowly  dead. 

And  angels  watched  alone, 

Calm  shrined  in  that  cold  stone, 
Fast  at  His  sacred  feet  and  by  His  holy  head. 

Breathe  free,  my  trembling  dove  ! 

The  Lord  of  life  and  love 
Not  long  was  prisoned  in  those  granite  bars. 


22  IN   PRIMO. 

He  burst  the  rigid  tomb, 

He  rose  in  dewy  bloom 
Fresher  than  youth,  more  splendid  than  the  stars. 

One  brief,  sweet  instant,  then, 

He  gave  to  Earth  again, 
Then  soared  above  the  slope  of  straining  eyes. 

And  now,  for  thee  and  me, 

And  others,  verily, 
He  decketh  many  mansions  in  the  skies. 

Who,  then,  dare  look  in  scorn 

On  thy  frail  form  forlorn, 
On  the  dumb  pleading  of  thy  innocent  face, 

When  this  ascended  Lord, 

By  seraphim  adored, 
Once  held  and  blessed  a  child  in  His  embrace  ? 

Save  thy  sweet  helplessness ! 

I  fly  to  ease  the  stress  •   . 

Of  my  heart's  throbs,  at  sound  of  thy  low  wail. 

I  clasp  thee  in  caress, 

Thou  holy  Harmlessness ! 
And  watch  beside  thee  till  the  night  grows  pale. 


CRADLE    SONG.  23 


CRADLE    SONG. 

a  Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me, 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

"  Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon  ; 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep." 

TENNYSON, 


24  CEADLE   SONG. 

Soft  and  bright,  soft  and  bright, 

Droop  on  her  golden  head, 
Bright,  bright,  pale  moonlight ! 

Droop  on  her  golden  head. 
Glide  with  a  tender  glory  down, 
And  crown  her  with  a  lily  crown, 

Soft  silvering  the  bed 
Where  my  little  one,  where  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Violets  blue,  violets  blue, 

Pant  your  precious  perfume  out, 
Blue,  blue,  bathed  in  dew, 

Pant  your  precious  perfume  out. 
Breathe  a  blessing  on  the  breeze 
Scented  sweet  as  linden  trees, 

Or  her  lip's  sweeter  pout; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Bonnie  bird,  bonnie  bird, 

Warbling  all  the  live-long  night, 

Bird,  bird,  ever  heard 

Warbling  all  the  live-long  night ! 

Come  and  carol,  glad  and  free, 

A  soft  enchanting  melody, 

And  charm  my  baby  bright, 

While  the  little  one,  while  the  happy  one,  sleeps. 


SILVER   PICTURES.  25 

All  things  fair,  all  things  fair, 

Lend  your  lovely  influence, 
Fair,  fair,  rich  and  rare, 

Lend  your  lovely  influence  ! 
Odor,  song,  and  mild  moonbeam, 
Blend  in  a  blissful,  baby-dream, 

And  soothe  each  baby  sense, 
While  my  bonnie  one,  while  my  blessed  one,  sleeps ! 


SILVER  PICTURES. 
"  Apples  of  gold  in  Pictures  of  silver." 

I. 

Wave  of  my  life,  soft  heaving  on  my  breast ! 
A  mere  mimosa,  shrinking  into  rest. 

My  blossomed  Hope ; — a  downy,  dimpled  grace, 
With  speechless  smiles  slow  circling  o'er  her  face, 
And  faint  sweet  breathing,  such  as  violets  lay 
On  the  wide  worship  of  a  morn  in  May. 


26  SILVER  PICTURES. 

Vague,  airy  grasps 

Of  little,  aimless  hands, 

With  dainty,  tendril-clasps, 

Binding  my  heart  like  bands. 

Hair,  pluming  down 

Like  a  bird's  breasted  brown, 

Sheened  to  the  satin  stroking  of  a  mother's  palm; — 
Eyes  slowly  orbing  in  an  innocent  calm, 
Or  winking  and  blinking  like  two  little  stars. 
Wee,  wistful  mouth,  with  marvelous  Ohs  and  Ahs, 

A  rosy  Bliss 

Swift  opening  to  the  '  sesame'  of  a  kiss. 
Nose  without  form,  but  most  complete 
In  comeliness; — moist,  muffled  feet 
With  curling  tips  of  toes, 
Touchy  as  balsams,  pinker  than  a  rose, 
From  which,  round  nails  are  born, 
Sleek  as  the  sheathing  of  a  grain  of  corn. 

My  Self's  Epitome, 

Fashioned  most  cunningly, 

Contented  but  to  be  ! 

Plunged,  downy-deep, 

In  silken-smothered  sleep, 
'Neath  hushing  hands  and  very  velvet  tones; 
Or  loosed,  mid  murmurous  moans 


SILVER   PICTURES.  27 

From  flaxen  trammels  and  from  fleecy  folds, 

To  gradual  nudeness  dotted  with  little  colds ; 

Quivering  with  vague  alarms, 

Shown  in  branched  fingers  and  wide-shuddering  arms; 

Drenched,  like  a  rain-shut  flower 

In  the  warm,  shimmering  shower 

Of  Love's  sweet,  daily  baptism, — 
That  outward,  visible  sign  of  baby  grace 
Unfolding  in  the  freshened  form  and  face, 

And  eyes,  whose  dewy  deeps 

Subsiding  in  slow  sleeps, 

Blend  colors  like  a  prism. 


II. 

My  Golden  Apple,  set  in  silver  fair, 

Six  months  have  shed  their  lustre  on  her  hair ! 

What  see  I  now  ?     A  lovely,  lucent  tooth, 
Pearled  in  the  coral  bed  of  her  sweet  mouth, 
Richer  than  all  the  treasures  of  the  South  ! 

Then  I  see  such  pretty  things  ! 

I  see  fluttering  arms,  like  wings, 

Keeping  time  to  airy  springs. 

Crystal  Growings  treble  after, 

In  a  pearly-pebbled  laughter, 


28  SILVER  PICTURES. 

Breaking  all  the  air  around 

Into  tinkled  rills  of  sound. 

I  see  eyes,  whose  spirit-flashes 

Soften  out  from  silken  lashes, 

Cheek  whose  polish  answers  well 

To  the  sheen  upon  a  shell, 

Sliding  back  to  where  an  ear, 

Curled  in  a  smile,  looks  pleased  to  hear ; 

And  my  humming  kisses  dip 

In  the  roseate  of  a  lip. 

0  that  burnished,  only  tooth  ! 

0  that  pouting,  pretty  mouth, 

Dropping  dews,  by  which  I  know 

Other  pearls  lie  hid  below  ! 

(There's  a  ring  around  the  wrist, — 

'Tis  a  fairy  boon  I  wist.) 

Sometimes  are  her  features  wrought, 

As  if  a  fledgeling  of  a  thought 

Slowly  skimmed  across  her  soul, 

Holding  it  in  brief  control. 

Last,  I  see  her  winsome  face 

Through  a  veil  of  ancient  lace 

Thrown,  in  merry  masquerade, 

O'er  iny  bonny,  baby  maid. 


SILVER  PICTURES.  29 


III. 

Apple  of  Gold,  set  fair  in  silver  sheen ! 
More  liberal  on  me  does  thine  aspect  lean. 

Browner  are  the  sloping  eyes 
Where  the  light  in  shadow  lies ; 
Farther  down  her  shoulders  fair, 
Strays  the  sunshine  of  her  hair, 
And  her  smiles  are  set  in  pearls 
Barely  brighter  than  her  curls. 
Now,  her  little  orb  of  life, 
With  a  lovely  promise  rife, 
Doth  a  golden  era  reach 
In  her  first  essays  at  speech, 
In  her  first  essays  to  walk; — 
Baby  totterings  !  baby  talk  ! 
Stirring  in  a  mother's  breast, 
Deeps  no  poet  hath  expressed. 


30  SILVER  PICTURES. 

IV. 

My  Golden  Fruit,  in  peerless  argent  set ! 
The  picture  deepens,  and  I  see  thee  yet. 

See  I  now  a  waxen  baby  folded  to  her  blissful  breast, 
And  her  gracious,  velvet  palmings  soothe  its  ever-waxen 
rest. 

And  she  rocketh,  and  she  warbleth  many  a  dulcet  baby- 
round, 
Winding  me  and  all  the  zephyrs  in  a  sorcery  of  sound. 

See  I  then  a  dimpled  Paphia,  bright  emerging  from  her 

bath, 
And  her  shoulder,  pearled  with  water,  still  a  purer  polish 

hath. 

Hair,  wave-darkened,  clings  like  sea-weed  to  her  neck 

and  perfect  head, 
Carving   clear  a  Grecian    outline,  where  a  glory  was 

instead. 

See  I  next,  a  little  figure  lily-vestured  for  the  night, 
Standing  for  a  thoughtful  instant  sculptured  in  the  lunar 
light. 


SILVER  PICTURES.  31 

Then  she  cometh,  slowly  smiling,  my  outstretching  hand 

to  meet, 
While  I  watch  the  drifted  flaking  of  her  white  and  naked 

feet. 

Then  the  dimpled  hands  are  folded,  and  the  shining  head 

is  bowed, 
And  the  baby  prayer  she  utters  soars  aloft  the  silver 

ejoud. 

Then  an  angel  brings  a  blessing,  sheds  it  softly  on  her 
head, 

And  the  dewy  sleep  of  childhood  drops  its  balm  upon 
her  bed. 


Y. 

My  Golden  Apple  sheened  in  silver  thrall ! 
My  Fruit  ambrosial  loosening  to  the  fall ! 

Tell  I  of  the  blessed  Savior  whom   the  shining  angels 

praise ; 
And  she  saith,  "I  want  to  see  Him/'  and  I  ponder  what 

she  says. 


32  SILVER  PICTURES. 

And  one  night  to  be  remembered,  when  I  laid  her  down 

to  rest, 
With  her  leafy  hands  reposing  on  her  sinless,  baby  breast, 

Said  I,  softly,  "  Bless  you,  darling  !"— and  she  answered, 

very  mild, 
"Jesus  Christ  loves  little  children;  Jesus  blessed  a  baby 

child." 

0  the  silver  chord  was  loosening,  which  made  music  in 
my  soul ! 

0  the  pitcher  thrilled  to  breaking,  and  the  vibrant  golden 

bowl! 

After  then,  she  altered  star-like,  pa*e  and  saintly  like  a 

star 
When  it  pallors  to  the  dawning  of  the  brighter  Day  afar. 

And  a  glory  sat  pavilioned  in  the  darkness  of  her  eyes, — 

1  knew  not  she  stood  in  shadow  of  the  gates  of  Paradise. 
Knew  I  not  the  angels  called  her  from  my  shielding  side 

away, 

Breamed  I  not  her  sunny  morning  broadened  to  a  brighter 
day. 


SILVER   PICTURES.  33 

But  the  high  decree  in  heaven  true  and  tenderly  was 

read, 
And  the  shaft,  death-sped  from  Azrael,  smote  that  fair 

and  shining  head. 

Smote   my  golden-gleaming   Apple,   softly  sphered  in 

silver  thrall, 
Smote  it  till  it  shook  and  trembled  to  a  fatal,  final  fall ! 


YI. 

My  Golden  Apple !  Apple  of  mine  eye ! 
Through  blinding  tears  I  cannot  see  thee  nigh. 

0  how  heavy  hangs  the  silence,  heavy  glooming  like  a 

pall! 
Lifted  never  by  the  echo  of  her  song  or  silver  call 

All  the  day  is  very  dreary,— weary,  dreary  is  the  day 
Since  that  little  loving  spirit  floated  up  the  shining  way. 

Passing  fair  it  is  and  lovely,  where  she  dwelleth  all  the 
while, 

0  I  saw  the  heavenly  orient  dawning  in  that  holy  smile ! 
5 


34  SILVER  PICTURES. 

And  I  strive  to  still  this  aching  with  a  vision  of  the  place; 
But  my  heart  is  breaking,  breaking,  for  the  vision  of  her 
face. 

Though  I  printed  countless  kisses  passionate  on  cheek 

and  brow, 
Seem  they  very  stinted  blisses  when  I  think  upon  them 

now. 

If  I  had  again  before  me  that  unconscious  marble  form, 
Oh  !    methinks  my  close   caresses    should  to   life    the 
sculpture  warm. 

Hush,  and  hearken,  troubled  spirit !  for  thy  words  are 

wide  and  wild ; 
Let  a  gentler  grief  keep  vigil  by  the  slumber  of  my  child. 

Let  thy  vision  pierce  prophetic  to  the  dawning  life  divine, 
Which  shall  crown  with  larger  lustre  all  her  beauty 
infantine. 

Penetrate  the  Holy  City  with  all  precious  jewels  dight, 
Gates  of  pearl  and  walls  of  jasper,  amethyst  and  chrysolite. 

Touch  thy  fancy  with  the  tender  tintings  of  the  pastures 

green, 
Let  the  stilly  waters  sparkle  to  thee  with  an  opal  sheen; — 


SILVER   PICTURES.  35 

All   in   vain ! — my   stricken   spirit,    with   her   shadow 

backward  cast, 
Dwelleth  on  the  heavenly  Future  less  than  on  the  buried 

Past. 

Dwelleth  less  on  gemmy  splendors  than  on  that  sweet 

time  of  grace 
When  my  blessed   one  was  folded   softly  in   my  first 

embrace. 

When  more  rich  than  gold  of  Ophir,  I  esteemed  one 

sheeny  curl, 
When  no  gem  shone  half  so  precious  as  that  peerless, 

primal  pearl. 

When  no  rare  Italian  warbling  on  my  ear  so  sweetly  fell, 
As  rang  out  her  baby  carol,  chiming  like  a  silver  bell. 

When   my  vision   swept  triumphant  down   the  purple 

deeps  of  time, 
And  discerned  this  silver  promise  orbing  to  a  golden 

prime. 

Dowered  with  a  richer  lustre  than  was  ever  sphered  in 

me, 
Nobler  in  a  large  fulfillment  than  I  ever  hope  to  be. 


36  '      SILVER   PICTURES. 

0  my  Jewel !  0  my  Flower !  0  my  Bird,  my  Beam, 

my  Star  ! 
How  shall  I  express  your  being, — what  you  were,  or 

what  you  are  ! 

Now  I  sit  alone  and  ponder  on  her  form,  her  smile,  her 

glance, 
Pining  to  take  wings  and  wander  to  her  fair  inheritance. 

Musing  on  the  evanescence  of  my  bliss  too  bright  to  last, 
Till  I  think  my  life  is  ebbing  in  the  tears  that  fall  so  fast. 

Sometimes,  through  the  mist,  the  sunlight  mocks  the 

magic  of  her  hair, 
Or  my  swift  ear  feels  the  snow-fall  of  her  foot  upon  the 

stair. 

Sometimes  on  my  work  the  shadow  of  her  dark  eye  slides 

along, 
Or  the  rushing  of  the  zephyr  wakes  the  warble  of  her 

song. 

Or  the  leafy  touches  haunt  me  of  her  small  and  dainty 

palm, 
Or  ideal,  pearl-lit  kisses,  thrill  me  with  a  sense  of  balm. 


SILVER  PICTURES.  37 

When  the  dim   uncertain  twilight  dies  away  in  dewy 

gloom, 
Shadowy  garments  seem  to  flutter  in  the  corners  of  my 


room. 


And  when  lucid  flakes  of  moonlight  through  the  darkness 

drift  adown; 
To  my  eye  they  take  the  fashion  and  the  glory  of  a  crown. 

Thus  my  love  compels  my  senses, — striving  tenderly  to 

cast 
O'er  the  sharpness  of  my  Sorrow,  the  soft  mantle  of  the 

Past. 

Or  she  turns  the  pallid  Presence  slowly  from  the  past, 

away, 
Till  it  meets  the  broad  effulgence  of  the  distant,  heavenly 

day; 

Till,  by  gazing  on  the  glory  of  the  golden  Evermore, 
Waxeth  to  a  wan  reflection  what  was  comfortless  before. 

Yet,  for  all  the  sweet  revealings  of  the  heaven  above  me 

bent, 
Seem  I  still  to  walk  in  sorrow  as  my  fitting  element. 


38  SILVER  PICTURES. 

And  it  never  grows  familiar — as  at  first,  I  thrill  and  wait 
For  that  voice  and  form  to  brighten  all  this  blankness 
desolate. 

As  at  first,  in  hall  and  nursery,  in  each  void,  accustomed 

place, 
Doth  my  fancy  form  the  features  of  that  little,  spirit  face. 

Were  it  always  conscious  daylight,  I  might  learn  to  bear 

my  cross  j 
But  deluding  dreams  at  midnight  win  me  from  a  sense 

of  loss, — 

Drown  this  dull  and  dreary  aching  in  a  Lethe  of  relief, 
Till  the  gradual,  bitter  waking,  brings  the  memory  and 
the  grief. 

And  I  think  the  deepest  darkness  palls  adown  the  early 

dawn, 
In  my  sleep  to  see  her  near  me,  then  to  wake  and  find 

her  gone ! 

0  she  was  a  summer  sunshine,  touching  all  my  life  to 

light ! 
When  God  breathed  her  into  being,  He  impressed  her 

very  bright. 


SILVER  PICTURES.  39 

0  she  was  a  summer  sunshine,  crowning  even  Care  with 

light! 
In  my  soul  she  made  the  noontide  which  her  absence 

inaketh  night. 

Scemctk  mine  a  slender  sorrow  to  the  careless  eyes  of 

men; 
Only  God  who  gave  her,  knoweth  what  He  hath  resumed 

again. 

True,  she  was  a  childish  creature,  scarcely  larger  than 

He  gave, 
Yet  the  long,  long  life  before  me  lies  in  shadow  of  her 


And   this   slow,  relentless   scripture    tolls  its   cadence 

constantly : — 
1  Thou  slialt  go  to  lier,  lut  never,  never  shall  she  come  to 

thee.' 

0  how  heavy  glooms  the  silence  !  gloometh  heavy  like  a 

pall, 
While  the  dying  zephyrs  answer,  "  rale,  rule."  to  my 

call  ! 


40  SILVER   PICTURES. 


VII. 

Hesperian  Apple,  pictured  argentine ! 

From  heaven  thine  aspect  leaneth  more  divine. 

Yes !  she  has  left  me  for  those  restful  regions 
Where  the  eternal  gales  of  rapture  blow ; 

And  her  companions  are  the  shining  legions 

Walking  in  bliss  we  lack  the  power  to  know. 

There,  not  in  guerdon  for  her  baby  merit. 
Nor  through  desert  of  lily  innocence, 

But  through  our  Lord's  dear  love,  she  doth  inherit 
Things  wide  beyond  the  ken  of  mortal  sense. 

And  still  to  earth  her  gentle  eyes  are  turning, 
And  still  on  me  her  sainted  smiles  are  bent, 

For  her  First  Love  in  faithful  fondness  yearning, 
And  watching  if  I  tread  the  way  she  went. 

And  I,  though  still  I  wear  my  crown  of  sorrow, 
And  feel  my  way  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

Walk  not  oblivious  of  that  clear  To-morrow 

Which  shall  o'ercome  this  long-impending  night. 


REQUIEM.  41 

With  thoughts  of  Christ  and  my  ascended  angel, 

He,  the  "  First-fruits,"  and  she,  His  little  child, 

I  humbly  hearken  to  the  soft  Evangel, 

Down  floating  from  the  heights  where  stars  are  piled. 

It  poiseth  o'er  me  like  a  seraph's  pinion, 

Wafting  a  transient  heaven  through  my  breast ; 

For  whence  it  cometh,  Grief  hath  no  dominion, 
And  aching  Love  is  raptured  into  rest. 

And  still  it  whispereth  the  old,  sweet  story 

That  nerved  the  saints  and  martyrs  where  they  trod, 

Eye,  hath  not  seen,  nor  heart  conceived ,  the  glory 
Sphering  the  llissful  souls  Moved  of  God. 


REQUIEM. 

Lowly,  shining  head, 

Where  we  lay  thee  down 
With  the  lowly  dead, 

Droop  thy  golden  crown  ! 

Meekly,  marble  palms, 

Fold  across  the  breast, 
6 


42  REQUIEM. 

Sculptured  in  white  calms 
Of  unbreaking  rest ! 

Softly,  starry  eyes, 

Veil  your  darkened  spheres. 
Nevermore  to  rise 

In  summershine  or  tears  ! 

Calmly,  crescent  lips, 

Yield  your  dewy  rose 

To  the  wan  eclipse 

Of  this  pale  repose  ! 

Slumber,  aural  shells ! 

No  more  dying  Even 
Through  your  spiral  cells 

Weaveth  gales  of  heaven. 

Stilly,  slender  feet, 

Rest  from  rosy  rhyme, 

With  the  ringing  sweet 
Of  her  silver  chime  ! 

Holy  smile  of  God, 

Spread  thy  glory  mild 

Underneath  the  sod 

On  this  little  child  ! 


I    HEARD   A   VOICE   FROM    HEAVEN.  43 


"I  HEARD  A  VOICE  FROM  HEAVEN." 

Hark  I  from  the  margin  of  the  crystal  sea, 

A  shining  seraph  clearly  calleth  me 

With  most  effectual  calling.     From  the  verge 

She  spieth  me  slow  wading  through  the  surge 

Of  my  deep  sorrow;  and  she  sendeth  down 

Such  gracious  glimpses  of  a  golden  crown, 

Such  smiling  gleams  of  bliss  prepared  for  u^, 

As  make  my  life's  deep  midnight  luminous. 

And  these  sweet  gleams  and  smiles  like  stars  arc  set, 

To  soothe  the  darkness  where  I  wander  yet; — 

They  let  heaven  through  upon  me,  and  I  go 

In  their  clear  radiance,  praying  as  I  go, 

And  nothing  doubting  that,  when  I  shall  close 

My  willing  eyes  in  their  serene  repose, 

That  seraph  shape  will  guide  me  to  the  bliss 

Wrought,  in  those  regions,  from  the  woes  of  thisi. 


44  GLORY   ON   THE   GRAVE. 


GLORY  ON  THE  GRAVE. 

Soft  streameth  down  the  moonlight 

On  cliff,  and  glen,  and  wave, 
Descending  ever  softest 

On  a  little  grassy  grave. 
With  tenderest  effulgence  a  tide  of  pallid  gold 
Down  issues,  brightly  bathing  the  marble  and  the  mould, 

Where  my  darling  lieth  lowly, 

In  a  rest  serene  and  holy, 

Brow  and  baby-bosom  pulseless,  and  her  innocent  white 
hands 

Making  no  more  gentle  gesture, 

Fair  folded  in  her  vesture, 
As  pale  and  pure  a  presence  as  any  statue  stands. 

0  !  where  she  lowly  lieth, 

My  stricken  spirit  trieth 
To  await  the  sweet  unfolding  of  this  bitter  providence ; 

And  now  the  moon-beam  hoary, 

With  expressive  grace  and  glory, 

Mutely  pausing  on  her  marble,  to  my  soul  appealeth 
thence. 


GLORY  ON   THE   GRAVE.  45 

It  resteth  on  the  sculptured  stone 

A  messenger  from  the  Great  White  Throne : 

It  keepeth  watch  by  her  gentle  side 

As  the  angels  watched  when  our  Lord  had  died : 

It  sitteth  still  on  her  little  feet 

Like  a  brooding  memory,  pale  and  sweet : 

It  lieth  along  with  a  pearly  light, 

Like  her  spirit's  mantle,  dropped  in  flight : 

It  faileth  with  silver  splendor  down, 

Like  a  halo  shed  from  her  saintly  crown  : 

It  beaineth  benignly  all  over  the  sod, 

A  smile  and  a  blessing  straight  from  God. 

0  !  streameth  soft  the  moonlight, 
Where  my  blessed  one  low  lies, 

Like  a  glorified  white  angel, 
Far  leaning  from  the  skies. 

Only  the  moonlight  paleth, 

Waxeth  feebler  and  then  faileth, 

And,  to  cumbered  mortal  vision,  leaveth  dark  the  grave, 
and  lone, 

While  the  angel  watcheth  ever, 

His  vigil  faileth  never, 


46  RESURGAM. 

For  a  charge  to  him  is  given,  concerning  that  white  stone; 
And  with  Faith's  uncumbered  vision, 
I  may  see  his  shape  elysian 
By  that  consecrated  stone, 
Watching  ever, 
Failing  never, 
By  that  lowly,  holy  stone. 


RESURGAM. 

44  Thy  dead  men  shall  live ; 
Together  with  my  dead  body  shall  they  arise. 
Awake  and  sing,  ye  that  dwell  in  dust!" 

ISAIAH,  xxvi.  19. 

When  the  world's  weary  cares  and  collisions 

Are  sunk  in  the  river  of  rest, 
Then  come,  in  bewildering  visions, 

The  beautiful  forms  of  the  blest. 
Their  foreheads  have  lost  all  the  traces 

That  told  of  the  passions  of  earth, 
And  the  light  that  illumines  their  faces, 

Is  fresh  from  their  heavenly  birth. 


EESTJRGAM.  47 

Their  smiles  tell  of  perfect  exemption 

From  sorrow,  from  sin,  and  from  pain  • 
They  sing  the  New  Song  of  Redemption, — 

"  All  worthy  the  Lamb  that  was  slain  !" 
And  oh  !  when  I  see  them  returning 

So  graced,  to  their  home  in  the  sky, 
It  seems  to  iny  purified  yearning, 

An  excellent  blessing  to  die. 

To  die  and  be  laid  with  the  number 

Whose  voices  are  nevermore  heard ; — 
No  tumult  invades  their  deep  slumber, 

Nor  the  breeze  nor  the  song  of  the  bird. 
It  seems  to  me  dark,  but  not  dreary, 

That  mansion  beneath  the  green  sod, 
I  shall  fold  my  pale  hands,  and  world-weary, 

Commend  my  calm  spirit  to  God. 

Oh  !  who  can  explain  the  returnings 

Of  hope  to  the  desolate  heart, 
The  pinings  and  passionate  yearnings 

As  the  loved  and  the  lovely  depart, 
The  desires  for  a  nobler  existence 

Than  earth  ever  promised  or  gave, 
The  dread  of  the  shadowy  distance 

That  stretches  beyond,  from  the  grave, — 


48  RESURGAM. 

The  vague  and  unsatisfied  craving 

For  bliss  unimagined  before, 
The  thirst  for  renown,  and  the  slaving 

To  clamber  one  pinnacle  more, — 
The  genius  forever  in  motion, 

Repelling  and  scorning  control, 
The  slumberless  waves  of  emotion, 

Refreshing  or  blighting  the  soul, — 

If  a  life  more  divine  and  enduring 

Shall  not  the  freed  spirit  surprise, 
And  a  paradise  worthy  securing, 

Allure  to  repose  in  the  skies  ? 
Alas,  if  the  marble  detaineth 

The  soul  in  its  silent  abode, 
And  a  rest  no  more  welcome,  remaineth 

To  comfort  the  people  of  God  ! 

For  the  world  with  its  pomps  and  its  pleasures, 

Shall  pass,  like  a  pageant,  away ; 
The  moth  is  consuming  our  treasures, 

Our  heart-blossoms  droop  and  decay. 
Our  joy  comes  in  fitful,  brief  flashes, 

Our  grief-shadows  lengthen  life-long, 
Our  fruit  turns  to  wormwood  and  ashes, 

And  sinks  into  wailing,  our  song. 
\ 


RESURGAM.  49 

We  gaze  on  a  face  fixed  and  solemn, 

All  helpless  to  soothe  or  to  save, 
Then  we  cling  to  a  passionless  column 

And  wish  that  it  sentried  our  grave. 
For  oh  !  in  that  utter  prostration, 

When  Faith  folds  her  faltering  wing, 
1  The  crushed  heart  repels  consolation, 

As  if  there  were  no  such  sweet  thing. 


BUT — the  parting  from  earth  is  the  union 

With  all  that  makes  heaven  above ; 
To  die  is  to  hold  rich  communion 

With  God  and  the  angels  of  love. 
From  the  world,  that  pale  form  and  undreaming, 

Has  vanished  forever  and  aye, 
But  its  spirit  is  with  his  Redeemer, 

Calm  sunned  in  His  radiant  eye. 


He  sees,  in  the  broad  light  of  heaven, 

All  explained  that  was  mystic  before ; 

How  that  not.a  pang  less  could  be  given, 
Nor  even  one  ecstasy  more. 
7 


50  RESUBGAM. 

That  tlie  sharp-piercing  thorns  which  were  braiding 
On  earth,  for  his  temples  of  care, 

Are  changed  into  garlands  unfading, 
Beseeming  a  seraph  to  wear. 


He  sees  where  the  hand  of  his  Savior 

Has  graciously  guided  him  through, 
And  how  often  his  sinful  behavior 

Has  wounded  and  grieved  Him  anew. 
He  gazes — and,  trembling,  adoring, 

He  casts  himself  down  by  the  Throne, 
And  in  melody  high  and  outpouring, 

Tolls  evor  what  Jesus  has  done. 


'Tis  a  boon  then,  oh  !  '/i,s  not  a  blighting, 

This  Death  which  attends  on  our  race ; 
'Tis  a  bright  but  veiled  angel,  inviting 

The  soul  to  the  Savior's  embrace. 
'Tis  all  that  we  mean  when  we  languish 

From  sin's  servitude  to  be  free, 
'Tis  what  we  implore,  when  our  anguish 

Bends  the  spirit  alike  and  the  knee. 


HESURGiAM.  51 

'Tis  to  join  the  beloved  Immortals 

Who  passed  from  our  sight  long  ago, 
Through  the  pearly,  bliss-opening  portals, 

Which,  to  us,  were  the  flood-gates  of  woe. 
'Tis  to  fold  in  our  thrilling  embraces, 

The  forms  we  have  mused  on  for  years, 
And  to  gaze  with  rapt  smiles,  on  the  faces 

Our  grief  once  embalmed  with  our  tears. 


'Tis  to  glow  with  a  beauty  resplendent, 

Divinity  starred  in  our  eyes, — 
'Tis  to  reign,  with  Dominions  attendant, 

High  throned  in  the  bliss  of  the  skies ; 
'Tis  to  burn  with  a  love  past  expression 

On  heights  the  winged  seraph  ne'er  trod, 
'Tis  to  rise  in  eternal  progression, 

Expanding  in  likeness  to  God. 


Then  praise  to  Thee,  Spirit  indwelling  ! 

High  praise  for  our  earliest  breath  ! 
And  praise  for  Thy  gift  all  excelling, — 

The  Life  that  is  found  but  in  Death. 


52  STELLA. 

0  !  we  ask  not  for  length  of  existence 

In  this  world  which  is  not  our  home ; 

We  spring  to  that  Life  in  the  distance, 
We  thrill  for  Thy  Kingdom  to  come  ! 


STELLA. 

My  head,  the  other  night,  my  pillow  prcst, 
In  a  clear  quietude  of  waking  rest, 
And  I  might  see,  my  open  casement  through, 
White  flakes  of  moonlight  drifting  from  the  blue. 

They  slid  with  silver  slope  adown  a  roof 
Whose  angle  cut  the  sky  a  space  aloof, — 
A  homely  tenement  of  wood  and  paint, 
But  crowned  with  glory  now,  like  any  saint. 

And  as  I  marked  the  shade  and  shimmer  lie 
In  pitying  pauses  on  its  poverty, 
A  little  star  peeped  up  above  the  edge, 
As  might  a  blossom  from  an  alpine  ledge. 


STELLA.  53 

I  watched  it  as  it  smiled  and  stepped  apace, 
Up  through  the  orient  with  serenest  grace ; 
And  when  it  went  behind  my  curtain's  shield, 
I  knew  it  traversed  still,  the  azure  field. 

Then  thought  I  of  my  sinless  seraph-child, 
Whose  little  life  dawned-  on  me  undefiled, 
Making  my  earth  irradiant  with  heaven, 
What  stinted  space  to  me  its  light  was  given. 

And  when  her  guileless  spirit  from  me  went 
Behind  Life's  curtain,  up  the  firmament, 
Did  I  not  know  it  shined  as  fair  a  sphere 
As  when  it  held  my  bliss  and  being  here  ? 

And  from  the  orbit  where  she  moves  and  sin<rs. 

O    s 

Streams  there  not  light,  with  healing  in  its  wings, 
Attracting  me,  as  sunbeams  draw  the  dew, 
To  follow  her  with  steadfast  step  and  true  ? 

Then  shall  I  weep  and  wail,  because  I  miss 
From  my  sweet  Pleiades,  the  twinkling  bliss  ? 
No — through  my  tears,  I  smile  on  what  you  are, 
High  fixed  in  heaven,  my  pure  and  peerless  Star ! 


54  BEUS    MISEREATUR. 

DEUS  MISEREATUR.  '•* 

When  my  Pleiad  paled  and  vanished 

Up  the  firmament  afar, 
Seemed  it  to  my  blinded  gazing 

Heaven  contained  no  other  star. 
Seemed  it  that  the  tiny  twinkle 

Of  my  feeble  Lesser  Light, 
Had  no  skill  to  sheen  the  darkness 

Of  the  drooping,  utter  night. 
I  felt  desolate  in  sorrow, 

In  my  sorrow  drear  and  wild  ; 
To  myself  I  seemed  the  only 

Mother  who  had  lost  a  child. 

Saw  I  not  the  heaving  Kama 

Stretching  round  me  everywhere ; 

Heard  I  not  the  grieving  Rachels 
Pour  their  wailing  on  the  air, 

Till  a  wilder  miserere 

With  a  sharper-thrilling  wail 

Stabbed  the  air  with  such  an  anguish 

That  a  listening  world  grew  pale. 
1^  %$* 

,'.'. 


DEUS   MISEREATUR.  55 

Then  I  stripped  away  the  sack-cloth 

And  the  ashes  from  my  head, 
Haply  to  discern  this  woe 

Refusing  to  be  comforted. 
And  behold  !  the  ruthless  Archer 

Bent  four  times  his  fatal  bow, 
And  with  each  unblenching  arrow, 

Was  a  'shining  mark'  laid  low. 

O  the  undreamt,  awful  power 

Of  the  human  heart  for  grief ! 
0  the  strength  that  bows  to  breaking, 

Yet  no  breaking  brings  relief ! 

Proudly  used  that  fond  Cornelia 

To  array  her  treasured  pearls; 
Three  she  counted  for  her  Gracchi 

Flashing  by  fivo  gentle  girls. 

Rang  their  mirth  in  grove  and  garden, 

Flew  their  feet  through  bower  and  hall, 

Their  bright  presence  made  the  homestead 
One  long  scene  of  festival. 

*<:,  »*++S,   ^' ' 

• 

j^A. 


56  i)EUS    MISEREATUR. 

When  they  walked  the  crowded  city 

They  made  sunshine  everywhere, 
From  the  palace,  from  the  hovel, 

Blessings  followed  them  like  air. 
Some  were  small  and  sonic  were  stately, 

Each  was  fair  and  all  were  good, 
ij  One — she  seemed  the  guardian  angel 

Of  the  shining  sisterhood, 

Loved  and  lovely,  glad  and  gracious, 
Four  unsullied,  happy  pairs, 

Clothed  upon  with  youth  and  beauty 
Walked  they  i  angels  unawares.' 

Even  as  saith  the  holy  Scripture 
Of  the  women  in  the  field,: — 

Four  were  left,  and  four  were  taken, 
With  the  mystic  symbol  sealed.* 

How  they  went,  I  may  not  utter, 

What  sharp  way  their  footsteps  trod, 
»    How  the  fiery  chariot  bore  them 

Smiling  martyrs  back  to  God. 

*  Revelations,  iii.  12. 


DEUS    MISEREATUR.  57 

But  I  know  what  weight  of  anguish 

Bowed  that  mother's  heart  and  knee ; 

Needed  she  a  '  strengthening  angel/ 
In  her  grief's  Gethsemane  ! 


Well  I  know  the  de  profundis 

Of  her  smitten  spirit's  moan 
When  she  cast  her  crown  of  sorrow 

Down  before  the  veiled  Throne. 
Veiled  in  clouds,  thick-robed  in  thunder, 

Seemingly  for  judgment  set; 
Might  she  not  discern  the  mercy 

Throbbing  past  the  curtain  yet. 
But  it  floated  through  the  darkness 

With  sustaining,  sweet  control, 
Till  a  mild,  majestic  patience 

Shed  its  moonlight  in  her  soul. 


Now  she  walketh  calm  and  saintly 
On  the  heights  by  martyrs  trod 

When  they  see,  through  heaven  opened, 
Jesus  by  the  throne  of  God. 


58  THOUGHTS   FROM   VISIONS. 

0  thou  Love,  white-crowned  and  queenly, 

Rising  regnant  over  Death  ! 
Dawns  for  thee  a  bright  Hereafter, 

Where  no  sorrow  shadoweth ; — 
Where  the  heavenly  jubilates 

Thrilling  down  with  golden  fall. 
Shall  overcome  the  vain  venites 

Of  thy  vibrant  human  call. 


THOUGHTS  FROM  VISIONS. 

"  In  thoughts  from  the  visions  of  the  night, 
When  deep  sleep  falleth  on  men;—" 

JOB,  iv.  13. 

Thou  boldest  mine  eyes  waking,  solemn  night ! 
With  all  thy  soft,  sidereal  fires  a-light ; — 
Let  bird  and  zephyr  sleep,  and  folded  flower, 
I  will  keep  watch  with  thee,  this  gracious  hour. 


THOUGHTS   FROM   VISIONS.  59 

I  will  keep  watch  with  thee,  and  loose  my  soul 
From  earth's  fast  fetterings  and  close  control, 
And  soar  aloft,  and  dip  my  wing  in  heaven. 
And  bare  my  eyes  to  gleams  of  glory  given. 

How  calm  thou  lookest,  how  serenely,  down  ! 
'Twas  thus  thy  primal  purple  and  thy  crown 
Upheld  the  wakeful,  wonder-lidded  eyes 
Of  them  who  first  walked  fair  in  Paradise. 

The  argent  arrows  from  the  bended  moon 
Dart,  winged  with  sleep,  athwart  thy  dewy  gloom  ; 
But  my  swift  soul  darts  back  resistant  rays, 
Winged  with  desire  to  penetrate  the  blaze. 

I  will  demand  of  thee,  and  answer  me, 
Thou  calm  Suggester  of  the  Crystal  Sea ! 
Let  Day's  meridian  shrink  in  wan  eclipse, 
Before  the  light  of  thine  apocalypse. 

What  starry  altitude  of  life  and  love 
Awaits  me  in  those  radiant  realms  above  ? 
What  golden  calms  of  purity  and  bliss 
Shall  follow,  in  that  world,  the  storms  of  this  ? 


60  THOUGHTS   FROM   VISIONS. 

What  wondrous  "beauty  shall  my  form  put  on, 
To  match  the  shining  shapes  around  the  Throne  ? 
What  regal  impress  stamp  my  brow  the  while, 
A  child  of  God,  and  walking  in  His  smile  ? 

What  glorious  garniture  of  crown  and  palm, 
What  angel-minstrelsy  of  harp  and  psalm, 
What  sphered  inheritance  of  fair  domain, 
Shall  make  me  peer  in  that  resplendent  train  ? 

By  what  bright  symbol  shall  I  know  that  face 
First  lost,  first  thrilling  to  my  swift  embrace  ? 
By  what  sustaining  strength,  what  mastering  power 
Shall  I  endure  the  rapture  of  that  hour  ? 

In  what  large  language  shall  I  clothe  the  throng 
Of  trembling  ecstasies  too  fine  for  song  ? 
What  lyric  utterance,  silver  as  the  spheres, 
Shall  voice  the  impassioned  eloquence  of  tears  ? 

In  this  hushed  hour  of  rapture  and  repose, 
Such  full,  free  effluence  my  spirit  knows  ! 
And  shadows  of  great  thoughts  sweep  slow  along, 
Dim  yearning  to  be  sculptured  into  song. 


THOUGHTS   FROM  VISIONS.  61 

All  dumbly  striving,  and  with  throes  intense, 
To  carve  in  living  words  their  vehemence, 
And  stand  calm  statues  with  a  glory  on, 
Immortal  in  the  Poet-Pantheon. 

Then,  with  her  robe  of  grief  around  her  cast, 
My  soul  goes  back,  a  pilgrim  to  the  Past, 
With  prayerful  pauses  at  each  silent  shrine, 
Where  rest  the  hopes  that  made  those  days  divine. 

The  rainbow  visions  of  my  sunny  youth 
Hang  sorrowshaded  in  the  halls  of  Truth, 
Like  antique  portraitures  of  heads  sublime, 
Touched  tender  with  the  tawny  tint  of  time. 

And  the  great  Grief  of  my  maturer  years 
Stands  draped  majestical,  too  rapt  for  tears. 
How  lies  its  shadow  lengthened  on  the  road 
That  leads  me  to  the  light  of  heaven  and  God  ! 

And,  grandly  orbing  on  my  silent  soul, 
Looms  the  consummate  hour  of  earth's  control, 
Then  slow  subsides  in  that  enduring  day, 
Which  lifts  all  darkness  from  my  soul  away. 


62  CYNTHIA. 

Death,  Death,  divinest  Death  !  thou  meanest  Life. 
Thou  art  the  avenue  to  peace  from  strife. 
And  oh,  Dominions,  Virtues,  seraph-Fires ! 
What  is  the  Life  to  which  my  Soul  aspires  ? 

Night  dies  in  day ; — from  height  on  height  afar, 
Voice  throbs  through  space,  soft  falling  like  a  star, 
Responsive  from  the  golden  thrones  above, 
Love,  Love,  Love, — Love  is  Life  and  Life  is  Love. 


CYNTHIA. 

O  thou  serene  similitude  of  one  departed, 

Graceful  of  presence  and  with  stainless  brow, 

The  lovely,  the  beloved,  the  happy-hearted, 

With  what  mute  meaning  dost  thou  meet  me  now  ! 

Thy  half-veiled  eyes  reveal  a  dewy  brightness, 
Thy  rose-lips  barely  breathe  a  balmy  smile, 

Thy  sculptured  arms  and  hands  of  Parian  whiteness, 
Soft  dimple  down  thy  flowing  robe  the  while. 


CYNTHIA.  Co 

Thy  tranquil  aspect  leaneth  to  me  laden 

With  memories  pleasant  as  the  smells  of  flowers. 

I  seem  to  see  thee  still,  a  mirthful  maiden, 
Rosy  as  morn  and  radiant  as  the  Hours. 

Like  pictures  graven  in  a  lovely  story, — 
Once  by  the  wayside  doth  thy  shadow  fall, 

Once,  musing  in  the  moonlight's  silver  glory, 
Then  garlanded  for  some  bright  festival. 

Another  time  the  golden  sun  was  slanting 

Warm  through  the  windows  of  the  House  of  Prayer, 

The  organ  swelled,  the  choristers  were  chanting, 
And  praise,  like  incense,  floated  up  the  air. 

And  as  a  due  devotion  held  thee  kneeling 
For  a  brief  moment  ere  the  morning  psalm, 

The  heavenly  radiance  athwart  thee  stealing, 
Subdued  thy  features  to  a  tender  calm. 

And  after  then,  a  bride  before  the  altar, 

Then  with  a  mother's  crown  set  on  thy  head, 

And  then, — alas  !  well  may  my  fancy  falter 
To  picture  thee  reposing  with  the  dead. 


64  CYNTHIA. 

'Tis  well  I  did  not  see  thee  lying  stilly, 

Thy  marble  hands  cold  crossing  on  thy  breast, 

Thy  silent  presence,  pallid  as  a  lily, 

And  shrouded  for  the  long,  undreaming  rest. 

For  thy  remembrance  dwelleth  with  me  brightly, 
As  when  in  days  far  flown  I  pressed  thy  hand, 

And  yet  thou  walkest  with  the  angels  whitely, 
In  the  green  gardens  of  the  Better  Land. 


END. 


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M19197 


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